


Interesting Places

by Serpenscript



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Consensual Underage Sex, F/M, Fellatio, Fondling, Public Blow Jobs, Teacher-Student Relationship, Under-Desk Blow Jobs, Underage (16)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 08:36:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5284037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serpenscript/pseuds/Serpenscript
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's wrong; she's a student. He should send her running. But somehow he can't muster the viciousness he'd need to use to make her stay away.</p><p>Based on the prompt, "Snape/Luna, interesting places to kiss"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interesting Places

He isn't sure _why_ he shoves her under his desk. It's certainly not the first time she's been in trouble deemed dire enough to warrant a trip to the Headmaster's Office, not after she became oneof Potter's friends. The Carrows _expect_ him to be torturing students, so her tears will hardly affect or concern _them._ The rest of the staff already know him to be an expert at reducing a student to tears. So he has no reason to hide her - except that she looks at _him_ with a hint of panic when he hears Amycus at the entrance, the mechanism for the rotating stairs grinding into movement. 

It would have been wiser to thrust her into the Floo, or to even disillusion her; wiser even still to leave her standing there, tearstained and frantic, when Amycus arrived - it would only further cement his reputation in their eyes and make his position a little less shaky. She's well known for being a friend of Potter's, and part of the vaunted _Dumbledore's Army_ , after all.

Instead, he grabs her shoulder and shoves her roughly under his heavy Headmaster's desk- he has the wits, at least, to not be gentle, even if he's already breaking his own rules by hiding her. It is enough that he is heavy-handed with her, surely; he pushes her hard enough that she bangs against the sides and whimpers a little, but by the time he settles himself in his chair and answers Amycus's knock, she has managed to right herself and crouch in the tight space. 

He glances briefly down at her to arrange his legs around her, and the panic and tears still on her face make him feel like a royal bastard. But he is a spy, has too much invested in this and too many _lives_ , and he won't break his cover even for her, with her long tangled blonde hair and silver-blue eyes. 

The space under his desk is cramped enough that he has to spread his knees to allow her to kneel between his feet, and then his kneecaps press uncomfortably against the sides of the desk - but the warmth of her body between his legs is surprisingly pleasant. He can feel her ribs expand when she takes a sudden, nervous breath when she hears Amycus speak. 

Almost before he's come to a complete stop in front of the Headmaster's desk, Amycus launches into a long-winded complaint on the students' latest trouble-making, in which Lovegood and Longbottom feature prominently. There is something about 'invisible paint' and the suits of armor singing terrible ditties insulting the Carrows, Snape, and the Dark Lord when anyone passes. 

It doesn't surprise Severus at all; it's more or less expected behavior from the DA, and he listens stoically while he ponders how to rid himself of Amycus - slimy, cruel, petty creature - when something steals his breath away. 

_Fingers_. Young, nimble, slender fingers are caressing his bare ankle just under his robes, and he is both thankful and disturbed that this happens on the one day he wears traditional wizarding robes - that is, with nothing beneath. He moves his foot away sharply to discourage her, and snaps at Amycus, hoping he'll go away. 

He doesn't. Neither do the fingers, which return, and - creep higher. They caress his calf, the inside of his knee, the sensitive skin of his inner thigh - and he is frustrated, ashamed, and utterly unsurprised to realize his cock has hardened at the soft touches well before her hands reach his groin. 

"Amycus, I will ensure Hagrid gives them some particularly odious task to do - I hear the thestrals need feeding, and perhaps one of the students will even make them a nice meal. But Crucioing the students will make them rebel, not - not turn to our Lord -" 

He hopes the slight stumble to his words isn't noticeable to Amycus, or the heat he can feel creeping across his face - heat that echoes the warm breath on his groin, the soft brush of _lips_ against his thigh. He forces himself to listen to Amycus's whining, but it seems utterly trivial compared to the trail of light, sensual kisses she is leaving on his body, knee to groin, and he barely manages to mask his sudden hiss when her cheek is pressed to his suddenly aching cock. It's _obscene_ \- it's indecent, it's immoral, it's an abuse of his power - but he can't so much as move a muscle to discourage her anymore. 

He tells himself it's to protect her; should Amycus discover her under the table, he would surely jump to conclusions, assume that _he_ condones using sex for students - or, perhaps using sex to punish students. And it might even somewhat accurate, judging by what Lovegood is doing - and it feels damn _good_ \- but he's not punishing her, not using her. Which is _not_ \- he doesn't - that is - 

"A little bit of Crucio won't hurt them," Amycus whines. "And you won't let Filch use the thumbscrews or any of the more clever little toys he's got, and those foul brats are undermining _our_ authority! A few minutes under Crucio and they'd show a sight more respect, I just know it!" 

The only thing that makes the Carrow brother's whining tolerable is the warm mobile tongue that has begun to shamelessly explore his genitals. The feel of her lips and tongue teasing his foreskin and swirling around the glans - and sweet _Merlin_ , the way her fingers tighten on his thighs when she tastes his precome - is almost surreal. 

It's not the first time she's made free with his person before - and he still doesn't know why he hasn't expelled her, handed her over to the Carrows, repelled her with words and curses and left her sobbing for her audacity - 

_No_. He knows why - because she looks at _him_ , looks _through_ him and _into_ him somehow and yet - still touches him. Without revulsion or horror or loathing: she touches him with every evidence of enjoyment, and it's such a rare gift - human touch, for who would willingly touch _him?_ \- that he can't make her stop. Even the few whores he's visited have done little to hide their dislike. He can't muster the true viciousness needed to truly drive her off, and he suspects she knows it. _Must_ know it, because her advances become more and more daring. 

Were it anyone else, he'd believe she sought things in return for sexual favors. Exemption from detentions, better grades, protection from the Carrows. And he suspects that were anyone else to ask her, that she'd say exactly that. And he is, at least, a more attractive choice than the Carrows for pandering sexual favors to, if only by the slimmest of margins. 

But she hasn't asked him for anything. Not _once_ , even when it's her friends standing in front of him, battered and defiant from another run-in with the Carrows. And he has made it clear he won't give her _anything_ in return, won't be _bought_ with kisses and fellatio and frotting, but it hasn't discouraged her in any way. It baffles him utterly. 

His head is throbbing. No, his _cock_ is throbbing, because Lovegood is stroking him with her pale delicate hands with surprising skill, and her tongue is - her tongue is doing things decidedly clever, even for a clever Ravenclaw. Still, he pinches the bridge of his nose in a good impression of an impending migraine (instead of an impending orgasm) and snarls at Amycus to shut up and get out before he shows him _why_ , exactly, _Crucio_ shouldn't be used on weak young students.

The flush on his face, he thinks, could be mistaken for anger, but his glower is very real, because he wants to enjoy what Lovegood is doing to him without listening to the man's petty vendettas against his students. Students he has to protect, despite the way they hate him and call him _traitor_ and do everything to undermine _him_ , even more than they do the Carrows. 

And the student he fails to protect by rejecting her advances because he is too weak and too alone. 

He bares his crooked yellowed teeth in a very animalistic snarl, and finally - _finally_ Amycus gets the hint and scurries out, leaving him alone to finally deal with the very pressing issue beneath his desk. Still, he waits, palms flat to the desk, and anyone watching might be fooled into thinking that the slow, deep breaths he takes are simply to calm his anger at Carrow. 

But _she_ has begun to suck him in earnest, and _oh_ the pleasure that tingles all the way to his toes when she closes her mouth over the head of his cock that first time; he can picture, vividly, the intense concentration on her face, the way her cheeks will hollow. He wants to tell her what it means, this forbidden seduction with no price tag attached; he wants to give her the sounds of his arousal and pleasure, but he has lived this long as a spy, kept alive _by the rules_. And this close to the final battle - he _knows_ it must be soon, and he doesn't expect to survive it - but his rules will, hopefully, keep him alive long enough to take down a number of Death Eaters with him. 

So he stares at the closed door and struggles to breathe slowly and evenly while her head carefully bobs under his desk, under his robes, slowly taking his cock a little deeper, attempting to deep-throat him. All the while her tongue teases and moves against the underside of his prick and she _sucks_ , and he is as careful to be quiet as she was with Amycus in the room. 

Even with him gone, there's still a risk from the portraits seeing and gossiping - the magic of the Headmaster's position _should_ keep them silent and loyal to him, but their loyalty to a student's safety could push them to break that silence. Seeing her under his desk may make them suspicious, but without visual confirmation there's no _proof_.

His toes curl in his shoes, and he resists the compulsion to pull her closer, to tangle his fingers into her hair. It is bad enough that he doesn't stop her and send her away; it is _repulsive_ that he does not, all for a few minutes of human pleasure and comfort. He loathes himself for his weakness, but he cannot stop her - not even for his own soul, he thinks, when _she_ comes to him. His self-inflicted punishment is to remain passive, to not reciprocate, to not _violate_ her with his touch and too-eager responses. 

He bites his lip hard enough to taste blood when she almost entirely deep-throats him, and his hands crumple the papers on his desk. They don't matter - student detention lists waiting his attention, demands from Filch, expenditures for the kitchens and greenhouses, and - and it is - impressive, how much of his cock she can swallow while squeezed beneath his desk. She has improved a great deal, he realises, and he refuses to let himself think on _how_ she has become so advanced in fellatio (has it really been so often? Or does find others to practice with, or -). Easier to push the thought aside when her throat is swallowing around him, her hands fondling his aching bollocks. 

It is also impressive that she makes barely a sound when he can no longer hold still. His hands he keeps flat to the desk, but his ankles trap her in place and his hips move, hard sharp movements, forcing his cock between her lips roughly. She gags and chokes but doesn't protest, even when he comes a bare moment later with a shudder, filling her talented and eager mouth with his semen. 

After the display of skill she's just given him, he's unsurprised when she swallows it all and licks him clean thoroughly, her tongue searching out every last trace of salty-bitter come, even under the foreskin. He _is_ , perhaps, a little surprised by the little happy sound she makes - the first voluntary sound she's made since he'd shoved her under his desk; he is under no illusions that his semen is magically chocolate-flavored.

When she is done, she rests her head against his thigh; he can feel her warm breath and the periodic brush of her eyelashes when she blinks. Even then he waits until his cock is soft again and the heat has receded from his face before he pushes his chair back away from his desk. He has to hastily straighten his robe, though, where her hands have pushed it well up above his knees to bare his groin. 

He forgets his brief embarassment when he glances under the desk at his Ravenclaw seductress. Her hair is mussed, her face is flushed from the stuffy air under his desk and, perhaps, from arousal; he thinks he wouldn't mind knowing she found seducing him arousing, if highly improbable. 

Her lips are deliciously reddened and swollen from her attentions. Even with her eyes red from crying ( _especially_ with her eyes red from crying, and doesn't _that_ make him a monster?) she looks delectable, vulnerable, and - utterly fuckable. 

He means to yell at her. He means to curse her, send her to a detention with Amycus to take some of the audacity out of her spirit, to make her stop risking her damn foolish neck toying with him - 

"An _interesting_ place to _kiss_ , Miss Lovegood," he says instead. Well, at least he manages to sneer and glare. 

"Is that what we're calling it?" There's only a little cheek in her tone, and when she crawls out from under his desk and stands up, he sees what the shadows of the desk had hidden, what he'd managed to forget for a few minutes. 

An old, battered soul stares out from a sixteen-year-old girl's eyes. An old soul that looks at him and sees _him_ , no matter what mask he wears, what he says, what he forces himself to do for an old man's 'greater good'. Sees the _man_ instead of the spy - a thought terrifying and wonderful. It's not safe - for _her_ sake, at least, he doesn't dare reciprocate to even her friendliness, but _oh_ , what it does for him, _to_ him! 

He makes an inarticulate noise - what _is_ it about her? - and touches a bruise on her cheekbone gently. He yearns to hunt down the one who hurt her, though he knows he can't. Her skin is soft and warm and she leans, ever so slightly, into the touch, but after a moment he finds the strength to drop his hand and step back from her a little. Only years of experience give him the ability to straighten his robe and throw back his shoulders and glare down at her with icy disdain - as much as he _can_ muster, after the way she has managed to break through his defences. 

"That will be a detention, Miss Lovegood, for kissing in inappropriate places," he says coldly, almost hissing the words with the effort the charade costs him. 

" _Interesting_ places," Luna corrects him easily, with no fear. And she smiles at him - sad, hopeful, anguished, understanding. 

He has no idea why she has decided _he_ of all people deserves her attentions. He is - he is the foulest sort, to allow it. And yet he cannot make himself push her away. 

"You will report for your detention tomorrow, after dinner," he answers severely. "I am sure you will survive skipping pudding, surely." He remembers overhearing her say once that she is very fond of pudding - certainly that is severe enough to keep his cover?

He means to tell her that she will serve her detention _with Hagrid_ , but his lips move without his control and he says instead, "Come to my office." 

"Of course, Professor." She doesn't _quite_ skip to the door, but it's still a near thing - she moves so fluidly she seems as magical as one of her invisible creatures. She pauses at the door, still looking flushed and more debauched than chastized, to look back at him. "Good night, Headmaster." There's understanding and -something else in her words. Forgiveness? Promise?

He doesn't dare answer her with such familiarity; the walls have ears, have _portraits_ , ghosts, house-elves. 

_"Go,"_ he grows, but he stands behind his desk until she's gone and the stairs have returned to their original position - the only show of respect for her courage he can give - before he sinks slowly back into his chair. He can _smell_ her still when he closes his eyes, he thinks, and he groans aloud. 

She is a curse. A beautiful, maddening, beneficent curse. And he is certain that without her, he would have shattered under the strain of his dual role. And somehow he suspects she knows, and that - maybe - that is why. Part of why. He doubts anyone can ever truly understand how Lovegood thinks. _Luna_ \- he can at least call her that, grant her first-name basis in the privacy of his head. 

She is sullying herself with him. He should stop her advances, make it clear they are unwelcome - and he gets as far as pulling out a piece of paper to reassign her detention to Hagrid after all, and is writing out the message for the owl to give here before he stops. 

He _needs_ her. He needs her, and - he laughs hoarsely and rubs a hand over his tired eyes, then sits there, trying to push himself that last little bit and just _send_ the damn owl. Surely she'll understand then - 

He wrestles with himself, in an agony of grief and need and loneliness and shame, until well after the sun sets. And then he sits and broods in the dark, until a house-elf pops in to light the candles. She - an elf named Mipsy, he recalls - jumps when she sees him sitting alone in the dark office, and flees. 

Decisively, he pushes his chair back and stands. He _will_ send the owl, and end this. He will not have her innocence on his conscience. He will manage a little bit longer - 

He tells himself that, even as he watches the note curl into ash, set alight by one of the newly-lit candles.


End file.
